


The Commander & The Magister

by SOMNlARl



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crack, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, outside pov, prompted, this is silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/pseuds/SOMNlARl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen's troops and the runners have a vested interest in getting him and Dorian together. This is their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Commander & The Magister

**Author's Note:**

> i was prompted by an anon on tumblr: cullrian prompt: cullen's troops ship cullrian too. 
> 
> perfect timing. i needed something not angsty. :) but still, sorry anon. this sucks. and it was supposed to be a drabble. i am terrible at drabbling. 
> 
> tumblr: xhermionedanger

“Commander was in a good mood today, yeah?” Oliver asks, mumbling through a mouthful of bread soaked in the always-dreadful stew on offer in the mess hall off the barracks.

Fern rolls her eyes, taking a break from braiding her long, dark hair as she leans across the bench and hits him. Hard.

“Owww!” He rubs at his arm. “How d’you even do that? You’re nothing but a titchy little elf!” He complains only to be rewarded with another stinging punch and a laugh spilling out of said elf sitting across from him.

“Maybe it was because of the Herald? I saw her walking the grounds today, casting those searching little looks right at him. It could be love!” Loren offers, a hopeful expression across her face.

“Give it a rest, will you?” Fern grumbles as she reaches for another hunk of stale bread. “That is never going to happen. You saw how it went when she asked about Templar chastity vows. Andraste’s tits, the man went white as a sheet and looked right to run away.”

“No,” Fern continues, washing down the bread with a swig of ale. “If it’s anyone, it’s going to be that mage. The one the Herald just picked up at Redcliffe.”

“You can’t be serious. Not the magister?” Loren gasps, her tone scandalized. She raises her hands to cover her mouth, curling her head down towards her knees as she whispers a quick prayer like the disgustingly good ex-Templar she is.

“Don’t be stupid, who else would I mean?” Fern retorts. “You’re backing the wrong horse, Lo. Lord Pavus and the Commander? It’s meant to be.”

“If you two are quite finished gossiping,” Oliver says as he slides over to the edge of the bench and stands. “I don’t know why he was happy and I don’t care who. All I know is I must have dropped my shield seven times today and didn’t even get told if it were a proper fight I’d be dead. Magister or Herald, if they can keep the Commander off my back I’m in.”

***

“Did you see when he just burst into the War Room? Quick as you like, just pushes right past Malcolm and throws the door open,” Loren says as she climbs up on top of the table next to Fern.

Fern snorts as she shuffles the cards again. “That one’s always looking for attention. And from what I heard he got it. Malcolm said the Commander couldn’t stop staring at him from across the War Table.” She sighs. “Wish I could’ve seen that. I never get to see the inside of the War Room.”

“You just want to see your Commander and your Magister, duckie,” Loren teases, ruffling a hand through Fern’s hair as she yelps and tries to duck from the touch. She’s too slow and before she knows it Loren presses a kiss across her forehead.

She’s just opening her mouth to protest that that is not at all why she wants a peek into the War Room thank you very much when she’s saved from having to respond by Malcolm who hands her a mug as he responds.

“Anyone with half a brain would want to see those two together. They may not know it yet but… they’re meant to be. You’ll see. Sooner or later.” He peers into his own mug. “Give us a drink, love?” Fern reaches across with the bottle to top him off, just barely managing to pour without sloshing the stuff. She wasn’t quite sure what they were drinking - whatever the elf-mage… no, archer, had brought her earlier between runs. Whatever it was, it was potent.

Loren groans. “Don’t say that!” She snatches the mug from Fern’s hands and drains it. “It’s going to be him and the Herald, you just wait and see. That’s what the Maker wants, Andraste’s Herald and the handsomest, kindest, gentlest, strongest…”

“You ever going to be done with the ‘ests’, love?” Fern shuffles the cards again, grinning as Loren flushes. “And you’re still wrong. Haven’t you seen the Herald walking off towards the captain of the Chargers’ tent at night? She’s not going there to talk troop movements, I promise you that much.”

If at all possible Loren reddens even deeper, the flush in her cheeks threatening to overtake the red of her curls.

“You want to bet? I’ll bet you 10 coppers that the Commander and the Magister are together before the end of the year is up.”

As if in response Loren leans over and kisses her again. More insistent now and across her lips.

Fern hardly knows what to think but regardless, she thinks she likes this bet.

***

They’d been walking for what felt like hours, trudging through the thigh-deep snowdrifts of the Frostbacks. Too many had died that night and she couldn’t think of them. She was just grateful that her friends - Loren, Malcolm, Aaren, Oliver - had survived the night. She’d passed them all, soot-smudged and trembling, as she’d raced ahead with Sister Nightingale to find a safe place for the survivors.

She was grateful to finally be released but found she couldn’t sleep, her mind still too full of fire and ash; the archdemon swooping over Haven and the darkspawn Magister throwing the Herald about as though she were no more than a child’s ragdoll.

At least they were alive - even the Herald - for now.

Fern shivered, pulling her cloak tighter as she moved closer to the campfire that was just beginning to leap and crackle. She yawned, rubbing her fists into her eyes.

“Recruit… Fern, is it?” She snapped her eyes open quickly to see the Commander sitting on the log beside her and rushed to sit up straight.

“Yes, Sir. Sir! I… wasn’t sleeping. I promise, Sir! All ready for the next watch,” she says. “Or did you have a message you needed run, Sir?”

The Commander chuckled. “You’re not under me. Cullen is fine. And no, I don’t need anything.”

“Oh no, Sir! I couldn’t…”

“Get some sleep, recruit. We’re safe for now and there’ll be plenty of scouting for you in the morning. And before you argue again, that’s an order.”

As she pulls herself up to her feet she notices a shadow in the corner of her eye, one with a pointed collar and perfectly coifed hair. She takes the long way back to the tent she’s been assigned, peeking out from behind a row of haphazardly set-up infirmary tents to see the two silhouettes moving closer in the flickering shadow of the flames until their lips meet.

She smirks and walks off quickly. Loren is going to be incensed.

***

“They’re there! In the tavern!” Aaren bursts through the doors of the barracks. He promptly trips over the corner of a bedroll - tumbling over in a pile of knobby knees and elbows, his face saying a brisk ‘good evening’ to the cold, stone floor.

“The Commander? And…” Fern runs over from her perch on top of the desk in the corner of the barracks, swearing furiously as the cards slip out from between her fingers.

“Yes!” Aaren manages, still panting for breath. She would tease him but Skyhold is a much bigger fortress than any of them were used to. It still amazed her that they’d found this place, lost to time and knowledge, but here at least they were safe.

“What are you lot waiting for? Come on then!” Fern grabs at Loren’s hand, pulling her to her feet as they both stumble up the stairs from the barracks in the Great Hall.

Somehow they manage to all stumble through the door of the Herald’s Rest at the same time. Of course, this also means that they all trip over the threshold and end up in a heap of under-trained recruit in the doorway.

Malcolm is the first to right himself and he holds out a hand to each of the ladies. Always the gentleman that one, Fern thinks as she stands.

“Probably should find a table in the front,” she hisses. “Commander won’t like to be seen by his men, he’ll be in the back. We go too close he’ll spook.”

Malcolm nods and takes a few steps to the nearest empty booth, nodding towards the bar for a waitress. The rest of them pile in next to him, Aaren barely fitting on the edge of the bench.

The waitress comes round and takes their orders, bringing a tray of ales back so quickly Fern wonders absentmindedly if she’s magic.

“Fern… you’re a spy, yeah? Try to get closer? None of us can hear a damn thing from here.” Oliver says as he pushes her out of the booth.

“Alright, fine yeah? But if I get caught… next’s years worth of drinks are on you lot?” Fern grabs at her mug before the others can and drinks deeply, coughing at the last mouthful.

“A whole year?” Malcolm looks horrified and grabs at her wrist as if to pull her back onto her seat.

She pulls her hand free. “A friggin’ year’s worth, yeah? Less than my hide’ll fetch if the Commander catches me snooping. You’re gettin’ off easy.”

“Good luck,” Loren says as she hides her face behind her ale.

“You given up on the Her… I mean, Inquisitor and the Commander then?”

“I… well. The Inquisitor can’t be bothered with such base desires, now can she? The Maker would hardly approve!” Loren stammers, her face turned to the window to hide the color creeping down her neck.

Fern creeps across the tavern, finding every shadowed corner as she makes her way through the hordes of soldiers raising pints and into the thick of the Bull’s Chargers who are singing as they arm-wrestle, cheers rising up to the ceiling at every successful bout.

She picks a shrouded spot, right behind the chair where the Bull can usually be found and settles in, watching as the Tevinter mage moves in closer towards the Commander.

She’s still too far away to hear them clearly above the din of the tavern but the mage’s lips meet the curve of the Commander’s neck and ghost their way up to his mouth. She smiles in satisfaction as she turns to leave.

Suddenly the Commander hums, his voice rising. “I fear we may have become a distraction, Dorian. The rank and file appear to be watching.”

“Whatever shall we do about that, Amatus?”

What does that word mean, Fern wonders? It’s not something she’s ever heard around Skyhold before and she’s heard plenty, running constant errands for Leliana.

“Well. I suppose if she hears little else, nothing at all. If she lingers though… I imagine there’s a posting in the Western Approach coming available. Full of varghests, of course. But nothing an eavesdropper couldn’t handle.”

Fern doesn’t have to be told twice and she turns tail, running back off towards the table full of her laughing friends before she can fully process what she’s heard.

***

Fern’s been avoiding the Commander since that fateful night in the tavern. Not obviously, of course. Luckily enough her duties have yet to take her in the direction of his tower.

Until now.

Leliana calls her to the rookery and attempts to hands her a scroll.

“Take this to Commander Cullen,” she says, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“Sister… I can’t.” Fern protests, pulling her hands back towards her chest, remembering the Commander’s last threat.

Leliana tsks. “I thought running was coveted amongst the recruits. Would you rather I assign you some other duty? I think there are still sections of Skyhold that need scrubbing? Usually the soldiers take those but I’m sure they’d be happy to relinquish that assignment if you’d prefer?”

Fern shakes her head and reaches out for the scroll. Blast Sister Nightingale! She doesn’t even need to be afraid of magic like if she were delivering to the Magister, the Commander is more than capable of running her through with his sword.

She hesitates as she reaches the Commander’s door, taking a moment to gasp in a few quick breaths. She knocks hesitantly, then again more insistently.

There’s no answer save a harsh breath she can just barely hear through the door.

She pushes the door open, it’s not unlike the Commander to refuse to answer and to just want the reports left on his desk. This must be one of those times; Fern crosses the floor to his empty desk and lays the scroll across it. She’s just preparing to leave when she hears a moan from above.

Fern jumps and runs out the door as quickly as she came through it. Never let it be said that one of Leliana’s people doesn’t have a sense of discretion. Because that was definitely an _I need you_ moan and if the Commander might have her sent to the Western Approach for possibly seeing him kissing a mage he would likely have her strung up on the battlements of Skyhold for hearing anything… else.

But Maker, she doesn’t want to think about anything else.

***

Fern staggers into the barracks after the long run across Skyhold, ignoring Oliver and Malcom and Arren as she crawls into her bed. She stares up at the ceiling, tries to ignore the rushing warmth of all of the nearby bodies and picks up her copy of _Hard in Hightown_ but can’t concentrate on the words. All of the scenes look the same; she thinks she really must have a word with Varric before he writes his next book. He might be amenable; out of all of the Inner Circle he’s among the most willing to speak with, let alone interact, with the rank and file.

A sudden weight dips next to her, familiar fingers undo the clasp of her braid and trail through the strands of her hair. Lips ghost against the back of her neck - a familiar perfume, lavender and crystal grace - Loren.

Fern feels a handful of cold metal pressed into her waiting palm and the fingers another hand trailing against her spine and up through her hair.

“You win.”


End file.
